Is It Really Real Son? Yes.

Nuff said.

Yet another example...

of why black people are cooler than white people. If this fellow says so, tonight is most definitely the night. Courtesy of my man Big Ben, Monty Gee throws it down:


Monty Gee on the M-I-C from meech.one on Vimeo.

In Sickness and in Phils

At around 1:30am last night, in between hits of pure oxygen to keep us from hyperventilating, Chief Naka and I took the time to speculate as to the fate of a pair of DR loyalists who had the poor fortune to have scheduled their wedding on the same day as Game 3. Turns out we needn't have worried.

Well played, Mr. and Mrs. Hume. Well played.

The Umpire Smokes Crack

I watched last night's game in a beer-soaked haze, and it took about a half day's worth of conversations before I could separate what actually happened from what I went to bed thinking was a product of my drunk imagination. Imagine my surprise when I found that game 2 would have been equally surreal had I been drinking Dasani instead of High Life.

Is it really possible that we could get the leadoff man on and fail to score in 6 out of 9 innings? That are hitters would continue to impersonate the spring training version of Pedro Cerrano whenever a runner appeared on base? That the wave of an umpire's hand could magically transform a strikeout into a walk and a hit batsman into an out at crucial junctures of the game?

Now, to be fair - last night's loss was not Kerwin Danley's fault. We lost because J. Willem DaWerth made an error, because the TB Gays got runners home when they needed to, and because our clutch hitting suddenly went the way of John McCain's dignity. Still; fuck you Kerwin Danley. Fuck you right in the ass with a square dildo.

That all being said, we did what we set out to do: win one game in Tampa. That we wasted an opportunity to win two sucks ass. That we won't get swept in the series is awesome. That we'll play the next three games in an environment where our hitters can actually pick up the ball (I'm looking at you, Greg Dobbs), and where 45,000 of the Philly faithful will be backing us up, and where Pat the (Rubber) Glove can get his usual Friday night fisting, and where I have tickets to games 4 and 5, is equally, if not slightly more awesome. I'm not euphoric, but I'm feeling good.

GO PHILZ.

Three More to Go

We're approaching about 30 minutes until game time, and I'm too nervous to type anything of substance. Which, of course, isn't much different than usual, but this will be significantly shorter. We took one last night, it may not have been pretty but if the exploits of my personal life have told me anything, looks mean nothing as long as the final score is in your favor.

One down, three to go. GO PHILS.

To help you get through these nerve wracking times, I offer an inspirational video containing one of the toughest adopted cuzzes this city ever had, and we all could certainly learn from, especially DVDubs' welfare collecting ass. Also, because I have a certifiably sick sense of humor, two other videos to ease the tension just a little bit. Enjoy, bitches.







Worst post ever? Worst post ever.

Why Can't Us!

If one were to list all the things I've hoped for over the course of my life, and compare them to which of those things have actually come to pass, the resultant fraction would be even smaller than the Bul Bubak's penis. (I know it's hard to believe, but it's true). From my unrequited 2-year-old's dream of hammering nails into the head of Stand Watie, to my futile desire for the affections of Alicia Humphries, to my hubristic attempts at securing a new job and a raise, my life has been a series of bitter disappointments and broken dreams. And that's before we even start talking about the sports teams. I don't expect pity for this; indeed, as Philly fans know, perpetual misanthropy is a part of our DNA. If we ever got what we wanted, what would we have to complain about?


As fans, we're oftent pilloried as a bunch of naysayers who always expect the worst. Well, the reason we expect the worst is that the worst is what usually happens. When Big Firm emailed me to say that he wanted no part of a Game 5 ticket, he explained his stance by pointing out that if the Phillies got swept, there would be no Game 5 for him to go to. I don't blame him for this mindset - if he thought any other way, I'd call him an idiot for not learning anything from the previous 3 decades of failure.

We all know about the heartbreaks of the '93 Philles, the '01 Sixies, the '04 Eagles and whatever the fuck year it was that the Flyers lost to whoever they lost to. As a fanbase, our suffering has become a joke; a played-out punchline for professional bloviators who have nothing else to talk about. To us, it's less something we think about than a foreboding desperation we feel in the very core of our bones whenever one of our teams verges on the edge of success. It seeps into every corner of our lives, whether we're watching sports or not.

But here's the thing about life in general, and sports especially. Fanhood is like that really gay Chumbawumba song that DVDubs no doubt listens to on a daily basis: We Get Knocked Down, But We Get Up Again. Why do we keep getting back up? Why do we continue to bleed Phillies red and Eagles green and Sixers black (unless it's those super dope cream throwbacks)? Why do we continue, in the face of what feel like insurmountable odds, to hope?

It's because we can!

Nothing can stop us from hoping! Not 25 years of championship futility, not 8 years of Bush's presidency, not even repeated rejections from attractive women! Because, at the end of the day, this time just might be the time that she says yes. Or at least doesn't throw a drink on you and kick you in the balls.

Four more to go

I'm not going to lie, it hasn't really sunk in yet. Sure, I watched the game. I saw the win. I watched grown men running around like kids after the last bell rings on the last day of school spraying expensive and delicious champagne on each other. I watched ceremonial trophies being given to an oft maligned, and yet highly respected manager and a 24 year old pitcher that through his play almost violently quieted many who up until a couple of weeks ago were accusing of not being able to perform in "big" games. So I do know what happened, but it really hasn't hit me yet. Maybe it's the calm before the storm, maybe it's guarded optimism that's keeping me from truly being able to let go and party like it's 1993, maybe it's fear of the unkown. Regardless of what it is, I do know this: THE PHILLIES ARE GOING TO THE WORLD SERIES.



I grew up in a house* in which it went unquestioned that actions taken within the living room, specifically in plain sight of the TV, were very, very capable of having a direct effect on the Phillies performance on the other side of that TV. If you were to walk into the room and shortly thereafter something detrimental occurred, you would be expected to evacuate the room in a very timely manner. Should something brilliant occur while you were not yet seated, standing was your destiny. And so on. The point of me giving you a window into what future therapists will likely refer to as the "root of my problems" is that I'm not trying to be self-absorbed or egotistical when I theorize that my celebration prior to an actual World Series victory would fall high atop the list of direct causes of a World Series loss. This is not to say that you should avoid celebration, by all means it is well deserved and I genuinely wish you the greatest of times while doing so. This one is squarely on me, and I will respond accordingly. After all, we still have four more wins left before we truly arrive in Mecca, and I can't allow myself to compromise that. Go phils.



* - It is important to note that the main perpetrators of this behavior in the house, my father and his ace rollie Mehmet, converted to being baseball hooligans after being lifelong rabid European soccer fans, and we all know they're fuckin nuts.

What does it all mean??

I am superstitious when it comes to Phillies baseball. I have moved twenty times during the course of this game, taken off jerseys, adjusted hats, & put on different jerseys. It's the least I can do as a fan, though I have given serious consideration to assassinating Manny Ramirez. And then we fell behind 5-3, and even I, the most loyal of loyal...began to lose faith. Well not so much lose faith, but turn my attention to game 5 and the performance Cole would have to put forth to get our team right. And what does a man do when he loses faith, or at least loses focus?? He turns to Facebook. So there I sat, a mere two innings ago, perusing Aleeetia's page and reviewing photos of our most loyal reader frolicking through the pacific northwest with his new bride. And then lightning struck. I looked up, screamed like a rape victim, and willed my favorite Hawaiian's ball over the right field fence. After jumping around, waking up my neighbors, calling Chief Naka and finding my seat again on the couch, I glanced to my left and saw the picture below staring me in the face. It was cosmic.


So when two batters later Matt Stairs came up to the plate, and my computer had been shut off...I figured what the hell: bring up that mysterious DVW sea creature picture and see how truly magical it is. And that's what I did. And we all know what Matt Stairs did. And I've now been staring this shirtless and hairless Matt Stairs look-alike in the face/nipple for the past hour in hope of channeling his truly unbelievable power.

So what does it all mean? It means there is a reason DVW posts comments twelve times a day. There's a reason he says "i think there are some more rooms matt sta-irs" and we don't repeatedly dead arm him. Put simply, God wants us to go to the World Series. And God wants me to print out this picture, turn it into a t-shirt, and wear it on Wednesday night when Cole punches our ticket. And who am I to turn my back on God.

The Return of Samuel McDalembert

Tomorrow brings game one of the NLCS, postseason baseball the likes of which we haven't tasted since Big Firm was receiving serpentine hand jobs in the woods behind the Wissahickon skating rink. Come 830 Thursday night, I'll be posted up in section 324 screaming my face off for Killa Cole and Company. But all that's for tomorrow night. Tonight, Sammy D and the Sixies are back.


And by the way, win case you all didn't spend your Wednesday evening looking at ESPN Gamecast like I did, I will be the first to inform you that they are back in a big way, busting the asses of the defending champs behind 21 points from Young Thad and 27 from LouWill of the bench. Sammy D held it down with a workmanlike 6 points and 5 boards in 20 minutes, and Uncle Reg provided a glimpse of things to come with 0 points and 5 fouls. E. Brand was content to let the young buls handle biz, as we busted up the C's 08-92.

Did I mention that this was the season's very first preseason game? Did I mention that I don't care? Sixerz 4EVA 2008!!!

Also, if anyone thinks this post wasn't solely an excuse to post a pic of Sammy D with Ronald McDonald, please consult a pharmacist and then give me that pharmacists phone number.

Pic of the Day

In honor of the Phillies, who are indeed doin thangs, we have decided to bring back pic of the day. Enjoy.



Big ups to Eddie the Ponce for sending us the best thing in the history of life. GO PHILS.

Flyin' Hawaiian for VP!

I've yet to visit the great state of Hawaii, but considering the current trajectory of both the baseball and political seasons, it may have to be next on my list. After all, it's the state that has given us not only the Kalani Oceanside Retreat and Don Ho, but also the Good Ship Obama and Sugar Shane Victorino. Seriously, who can tell me (apologies to our homegirl Ashley Biden), that they wouldn't vote for an Obama/Victorino '08 ticket?

Anyway, all this is just a precursor to sharing with you all the fabulous gift that Bill Gates sent my way this morning. That's right: not only does the Flyin' Hawaiian possess a sunny demeanor, a wicked glove and a Ruthian bat, but he's also a blogger!

May the Shane Victorino playoff blog provide you with as much entertainment as the Hawaiian himself. Go Phils!

Chill Man!!! Chill!!

I was at Game 2 and yes it was incredible. I hope to re-visit it at some point further down the post-season path, but for now I just have one request: Chill the fuck out!!! This series isn't over yet. This is the Phillies right? And they still play in Philadelphia? Since when can Phillies fans(or fans of any of the teams around here) start acting like a 2-0 lead is a done deal? I'm just curious. I know we have command of the series and the momentum. I know we just beat by far their best pitcher. I believe we are the better team in almost every way. I like the pitching match-up tomorrow(Moyer vs. Bush), I'm confident Utley and Howard will start hitting, and I feel good about the team in general, but c'mon people, let's wait until the clinching game is over before we start congratulating ourselves on a job well done. We haven't reached the status of a team that can assume anything. Keep your game face in place and don't count those eggs yet, the squad still has work to do. Go Phils.


-I'm a lifelong Philly fan suspicious of everything good and perpetually expecting the worst, and I approve this message.

This is supposed to be fun, right?

I would be lying if I said I didn't spend at least three quarters of the year looking forward to today, October 1, 2008, the beginning of the MLB playoffs. My mood from February through November is largely contingent on the Phillies playing in October, or at the very least, having a chance to do so. Despite every inclination I had in the last 6 weeks, my team rose to the occasion and low and behold, we are playing meaningful games in turtlenecks. Truly glorious news. One would think that when you want something so bad, when your disposition and outlook on life completely depends on the ability of 10 or 12 players to manufacture more runs than the team they are playing, that I would relish playoff baseball and enjoy each and every second of it. Well you would be wrong, because this shit is stressful. And while enjoyable in the general sense, games like today literally hurt my heart & stomach.


This feeling triggers an undeniable sense of deja vu. I've had this feeling before, I know what this is all about. See playoff baseball is like that first memorable, and perhaps simultaneously forgettable adolescent sex. All you do is think about it, look forward to it, ponder what it will feel like. Sure you are anxious. There's always the chance that you will fall flat on your face, embarrass yourself, and possibly impregnate your quasi-girlfriend. Well maybe that part doesn't translate well to this analogy, but the fact remains, the playoffs compel a welcome anxiety. And if you aren't anxious, then something ain't right. You can throw that condom on in the privacy of your bathroom as often as you damn well please, but it ain't the same as operating in the woods, two forties in the hole, where you can't tell the tip of your penis from the large pimple on your upper thigh. Well that's gross, but the point is clear: getting your mind right for the playoffs doesn't necessarily help your team perform in front of 45,000 lunatic fans when you know one pitch can determine whether they go home and beat their wives or shower them in rose pedals. And that's a burden that a morning-after pill simply can't relieve.


So tonight, I'm happy to say the Phillies are playoff game winners for the first time since I had braces and wore a starter jacket to school everyday. Fifteen years ago I had one focus: making out on the dance floor at Bar Mitzvahs and placing my hand lower on my dance partner's backside than any of my friends. That and mastering the running man. Today, I am again focused on a singular goal: staying positron and watching my Phils march towards the World Series, preferably while the Red Sox become infested with the bubonic plague. I mastered kissing my dramatically uncomfortable girlfriend in front of her chaperone mother back then, and I don't see why my present intentions can't come to fruition as well.
And today, despite what the team was saying and the media ignored, was a must-win. Our beloved city is always prepared to bitch and moan and assume a paralyzing level of pessimism. The collective posture of even the most disinterested fan would have been mind blowing had Lidge blown that lead today. But alas, he did not, and instead, I like our prospects going forward. We can beat that fat fuck tomorrow. Imagine the cheesesteak consumption that man has endured over the past few days. If his arm doesn't fall off from the ridiculous schedule Brewers management has subjected him to, surely his cholesterol will be his undoing. That or our own version of fat and black, Mr. .245 himself, Ryan Howard.

Time to get it crackin, go Phils!